


Fighter

by tobeconvincedoflove



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Angst, Bahorel is a giant teddy bear, Cancer, Gen, I'm really sorry, M/M, Vomiting, also this is just a weird little mess I couldn't get out of my head, because bahorel's pov, but there's no hospital this time, gratuitous fighter analogies, oh and, there's platonic cuddling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-11
Updated: 2014-05-11
Packaged: 2018-01-24 07:10:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1596110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tobeconvincedoflove/pseuds/tobeconvincedoflove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bahorel thinks that people don't give Enjolras enough credit for fighting. (Or, it's a lot harder to win a fight against your own body than someone else's).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fighter

Bahorel thinks that a lot of people don’t give Enjolras enough credit for fighting. And not in that ‘you’re so strong despite cancer, poor baby’ way, though he did never let his own body get the best of him, but in the ‘fuck everything I’ll do what I want and nothing’s going to stop me’ kind of way. Physically, Enjolras was never much, not even when he was healthy, and Bahorel (or Eponine for that matter) could probably knock him out in a minute flat, but that bastard had a head that would not fucking give up. 

And if there’s one thing Bahorel knows, it’s how to fight. Boxing, martial arts, street fighting… he’d done it all, and as a result he’s got probably the most muscular figure out of Les Amis, if only because to win a fight you’ve got to be stronger than the other guy. He’d never actually stopped to consider what it was like to be in Enjolras’s position, where to be stronger than the other guy he had to be stronger than himself. So either way he lost. But also won. And Enjolras had won twice already. 

“Hey, Chief,” Bahorel greeted, using his normal nickname for Enjolras as he let himself into Combeferre and Enjolras’s flat. Combeferre had asked Bahorel to stay with Enjolras today—it was the day after a chemo—while he went to class (and Bahorel knew why. He could easily carry the blond, who was rapidly losing the ability to even walk form his bed to the sofa, and the flat was too narrow for a wheelchair). 

“Hey,” Enjolras croaked, trying to sit up on the sofa. It wasn’t an impressive display, his bony arms only managed to hold up his equally thin torso for five seconds before giving out. There was a mostly-filled vomit bucket next to him, and the smile he shot Bahorel’s way was tired. Immediately, Bahorel disposed of the bucket, cleaning it out and replacing it with a new one. Then he sat down next to his friend, gently helping Enjolras sit up, leaning the smaller man against him. 

“Sorry I was a little late, missed the train I was supposed to take,” Bahorel apologized, but Enjolras just shook his head.

“It was fine. I’m fine staying here alone, you know. I was actually planning on doing some homework,” Enjolras dismissed, waving his hand about, but Bahorel tightened his grip, knowing Enjolras’s workaholic tendencies.

“Like hell you’re fine. Last time you said that you ended up in the hospital, and Courfeyrac took all of your textbooks when he left last night. Said you could wait at least a day after treatment to continue being the overly enthusiastic student,” he explained, and though Enjolras went rigid for a moment, he quickly relaxed into the larger man’s arms. This was sort of a routine with them; Bahorel (and Combeferre and Courfeyrac) had known Enjolras since they were less than five feet tall, and Bahorel had been his friend through both (well, now three) of Enjolras’s diagnoses, treatments, and (well, hopefully on the third) remissions. Bahorel didn’t know why, but he was always very tactile with Enjolras, despite him being completely, 100% heterosexual (and Enjolras was madly in love with his boyfriend, Grantaire). His always laughing girlfriend could attest to that. 

“You all suck,” Enjolras mumbled, but didn’t fight Bahorel. 

“Is there any hope of you trying to sleep it off?” Bahorel’s voice was hopeful, but it was obvious by the glare that Enjolras sent his way that it wouldn’t happen.

“I’m tired, but you know what happens. Fucking ALL makes it hurt too much to sleep,” Enjolras explained, using what he always called his cancer (acute lymphoblastic leukemia), before inhaling sharply. 

“Number,” Bahorel says automatically, lightly laying Enjolras on the couch before going to the kitchen to find the appropriate pain medication. There were five different ones, for varying levels of discomfort. Bahorel guessed it was probably the worst, given Enjolras seemed exceptionally tired, and that he hadn’t been sleeping. Fuck, that meant Bahorel had to inject him. 

“Nine,” Enjolras whimpered, and, yup, Bahorel measured the right amount of medicine into the syringe and made quick work of injecting his friend’s thigh. The relief was nowhere near immediate, and that was when Enjolras doubled over. Luckily Bahorel had moved the bucket, and all of the vomit landed inside, and Bahorel just rubbed Enjolras’s back and helped hold up upright until he was done with the fit. When it was over, (and dammit, Bahorel almost cried at how agonized the retches had sounded) Bahorel merely handed Enjolras the water glass next to the sofa, but Enjolras’s hands were shaking too much to grab it. 

“I fucking hate this. Why won’t this godforsaken disease just kill me and get it over with,” he whispered, and Bahorel knew Enjolras was crying. It was that time in his treatment when his body was at his worst, and even Enjolras couldn’t fight it all the time. Even though he tried to. 

“You’re going to beat it again, Enjolras,” was the only thing Bahorel could think to say, as he wrapped his arms around his friend, not failing to notice how much smaller than normal he was. 

“Yeah, but it’ll keep coming back. I don’t know if it’ll be this time or if it’ll be in another five years when it comes back again, but I know I’m going to die and this disease is going to be what kills me.” Enjolras’s breaths were coming in gasps that moved his entire chest, but Bahorel just tightened his grip, pressing his chin into Enjolras’s curly blond hair. 

“No it’s not. Because you’ve beat it twice already, and nothing is stupid enough to mess with you more than three times. It’s going to be a KO, a permanent one, this time,” Bahorel comforted, and, subconsciously, Enjolras touched Bahorle’s bruised and scraped knuckles. He supposed it must look odd, with Bahorel’s arms (which were actually as thick as Cosette’s thighs) lightly holding Enjolras, who thought that he look like death itself. 

“Is everything a fight with you?” Enjolras asked, laughing weakly, bringing a shaking hand to wipe the tears off of his face. 

“Pretty much. But you have to admit, it’s a good metaphor, Chief.” Bahorel kept his voice soft, waiting for the medication to put Enjolras to sleep. The injected stuff always did. Then he could see about making something to force his friend to eat, to try to get him to keep something down. 

“Not really, considering I can’t even beat my own body. God, that’s why I hate it when everyone’s like ‘you’re such an inspiration’. They don’t think I’m inspiring because I spend most of my not-dying time fighting for human rights, but because I didn’t let my own body kill me.” There was no real malice in Enjolras’s voice, but Bahorel knew how frustrating the word ‘inspiration’ was to his friend. But Bahorel also knew his friend was wrong about the first part.

It was easy to win a fight against someone else, but it was fucking hard to beat yourself. It was true with Enjolras, and it was true with Marius who was still getting over the mental shithole his grandfather put him in, and it was too fucking true when Grantaire quit drinking. Really, (and Bahorel thought this proudly) all of Les Amis were fighters; fighters for justice, but fighters in their own right, and their fights were much harder than his. Especially Enjolras.

Because Bahorel thought it was fucking amazing how together Enjolras had his life, despite cancer, and how Enjolras had gone into remission at thirteen, then again at seventeen, and how he _would_ again at twenty-two. Even now, when he couldn’t even walk ten feet, Enjolras was fighting, he was still running that social justice blog, and he was still debating with Grantaire, and talking about fighting with Bahorel. 

“Let’s get you to bed, okay?” Bahorel asked quietly, not saying anything that he was thinking, but hoping he was showing it in how he was caring for his friend. Eyelids drooping, Enjolras didn’t even protest when Bahorel scooped him up, carried him to his bed, and tucked him in. In fact, he was already asleep before the covers were up. 

So, meandering back into the kitchen, looking through the cupboards to find noodles, Bahorel called Grantaire, who should be done with his art class. 

“Hey. Is everything all right?” Grantaire asked immediately, his voice scratchy with worry. He knew Bahorel was with Enjolras.

“It’s okay. He’s asleep,” Bahorel answered, and smiled a little at the loud sigh of relief from the other end. “He threw up again, though.” 

“Yeah. Combeferre said that it’s normal at this point, but that if it doesn’t improve before his next chemo, he might have to stay in the hospital,” Grantaire explained, as Bahorel started boiling water on the stove.

“He’ll be okay,” Bahorel promised, knowing his friend was freaking out, wherever he was.

“How can you know that?” And, grinning, Bahorel knew his answer, and knew that if Enjolras heard him say it, he’d smack him. 

“He’s a fighter.”


End file.
